Enjoy the Silence

"Do they really expect us to climb that?" Karen—Kara, or maybe it's Erin?—asks, arms folded, staring up at the monstrous tree pegged with foot holds leading up to the timberline.

I follow her gaze, tracing the series of ropes and wooden steps scattering the trunks and branches high into the sky. We're only at the first course; I think they said the ropes elevated 25 feet at the start, 50 toward the end.

I shrug, unable to answer. Or unwilling. I guess it depends on your point of view.

You see, there's a difference between being at a silent retreat and being silent at a retreat. I signed up for this week of adventure under false pretenses. Advertised for introverts and INFPs like me, I was under the assumption it was going to be a week of together but solo activities. You know, like reading, but around other people... like at a library? Or maybe we'd go for a quiet walk in the woods or paint near the lake. The part of the brochure that I thought read "silent retreat" actually read "quiet retreat," apparently implying chill group activities; I got so excited for a week of silence that I didn't even read it twice. Or once, properly. My bad.

I'd have skipped the whole thing had I read the parts of the brochure that described the group activities, which were designed for introverts, helping us learn how to break out of our shells and interact with others—like climbing a ropes course 25 feet in the air—team building exercises inspired by corporate retreats and summer camps.

Before I arrived, I'd already told everyone in my life not to expect to hear from me, and I'd been greatly looking forward to an entire week of not speaking to a single person. When I got here and realized my mistake, that it was a whole week of organized group fun, I decided to stay, despite the false advertising, while still committing to the silence.

They were pretty nice about it at the front desk. I did my best to describe my intentions through a series of hand gestures, lest their attempts at communication continue unanswered. I got some cringy smiles, wide eyes, and awkward hand-wringing in response, but I vowed not to be a pain in the ass beyond that.

Karen, or Kara, or whatever her name is, eyes me before shrugging and walking off to find another introvert to bug. I don't think she's fully committed to the role, but that's just me. I watch her try to chat with someone else lingering near the small group, all staring up, intimidated by the tall trees in front of them. 

Of course, there's not a single ENTP in the group, not one person who stands out. Gary, a slightly round, balding man in glasses, stands off to the side. A small, shy girl who looks young enough to have been put up to this whole week by her parents hovers near the others, anxiously twisting her sleeves. A couple of other people, all middle-aged, looking uncomfortable in their own skin, stare upward, trying to determine how best to tackle the project.

Though I didn't officially announce I was silent to my peers—how could I?—the group organizers must have dealt with this kind of thing before because everyone adapted pretty quick. They either assume I'm mute, or maybe I'm not the first to mistake a 'quiet' retreat for a 'silent' retreat. Either way, silent or not, I'm the first they shove through the guided course, harnessed in, and hoisted up. The employees clap and shout while the rest of the group looks on anxiously.

I may have an aversion to people and organized group fun, but I enjoy heights. I climb each foothold, made easier by the rope threading my harness, stabilizing me from down below. The employee shouts instructions, and I listen and follow along. It's silent above the trees—bonus—and knowing I could fling my body off the tree and suspend in the air thanks to the safety harness is both liberating and exhilarating. I smile through the 25-foot steps up, working my way through the entire course, all the way up to the 50-foot suspension, which ends with one final challenge, crossing from one tree to another, both of which perch at the edges of a cliff.

I dismount when I reach the end of the course and sit on a rock next to a guide whose walkie-talkie likely informed her that the first person through, me, was a weirdo who'll stare blankly at any question asked, so she smiles and says nothing.

I can't figure out why this was designed as an activity to help introverts come out of their shell until I hear nervous shouting carry on the wind from the others. Their instructions to each other—pull higher, slow down, belay on!—it's all stilted, awkward, and uncomfortable. The forced interaction isn't necessary but obviously encouraged; that's how group activities work, after all, and, surprise, surprise: none of them seem to be enjoying this.

When the last of the group pulls through, there are muted cheers from the organizers and awkward back pats from the group. The retreat leaders clap excitedly, and we all follow them back to the lodge.

The rest of the week goes similarly. On a canoeing trip, two people per boat navigate together through the various streams off the main lake. Using a paper map, we were all to meet at a designated spot for a picnic. Gary chose me as his partner, and his relief at not having to talk was palpable. We managed to easily navigate the stream and trails through a series of pointing, some grunts, and head gestures from Gary, and we were the first to arrive.

Another afternoon, we paired up into groups of three, each tasked with finding a hidden basket of groceries or tools and collecting herbs growing along the trails in the woods using another paper map designed to make us communicate and work together. Once all the ingredients were collected, we followed the map through the woods to a designated location where each group arrived with a portion of the meal that we would cook together over an open fire.

I was bewildered. My peers argued with each other to work with me. Gary was ousted because we worked together during the canoe trip, so I ended up with Erin—her name was neither Karen nor Kara—and Mary, the young, shy girl I was shocked to find shoving her way through the others to be on my team. I've never been popular in my life, so it was a new experience.

The moment we set off on the trail, both women joined me in silence. We leisurely navigated our way through the trails, enjoying nature, plucking fresh rosemary from the designated patch, and finding our hidden basket, which held several loaves of bread.

We weren't the first group back, but we weren't the last, either. Erin, Mary, and I remained silent throughout the night, working as a group to prepare our last meal. Somehow, our silence took over, spreading throughout the rest of the group, and slowly, the other members of our adventure retreat grew quiet.

By the end of the night, the only sounds heard amongst the small group of introverts were the cicada's song in the trees, the crackling of the wood in the fire, and the sizzling of the meat on the cast iron pan.

No one spoke as we cleaned up. No one spoke as we packed the cooking materials and hiked back to the lodge. No one spoke as we separated into our rooms for the evening.

On the last day of the retreat, the organizers looked defeated. They stood in front of our rag-tag group of INFPs, all ages and sizes, colors and walks of life. We all smiled more than we had at the start. We were all quiet.

The organizer thanked us for a fantastic week. Jenna, the retreat leader, in her ribbed tank and ripped muscular arms, clasped her hands together and asked enthusiastically: Did we all enjoy our week of adventure? Did we learn any skills that might help us improve interacting and communicating with others?

It's probably not the answer she's looking for, but I think: Why yes, I did learn how to communicate with others. In fact, it required no speaking at all.